


Such a Stranger

by regshoe



Category: Flight of the Heron - D. K. Broster
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24408523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regshoe/pseuds/regshoe
Summary: 'Aye, a good tale to tell when we gan back ower Tyne.'Mr Fosdyke returns home.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	Such a Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Reading over the scene of Ewen's unexpected rescue by the Yorkshiremen, I thought it'd be interesting to explore Mr Fosdyke's thoughts on his decision—this was the result...
> 
> Thanks to Luzula for beta reading!

'Come on, Lassie! Not far now.'

Perhaps the dog sensed something of the meaning of these words in the tone with which they were spoken, for she resumed at once the trotting pace which had begun to lag a little, and soon caught up to where the two horses and their riders stood, in the shade beneath the spreading branches of a great chestnut tree. Here the broad road turned a corner, and Robert Fosdyke and Jan Prescott, after a journey of rather more than three hundred miles, looked upon their first view of the towers of York Minster, standing out above the flat summer fields. It looked, at a distance of three or four miles, rather like a miniature or a sort of toy cathedral.

'Well, well,' said Mr Fosdyke, ''tis a joy to see it again.'

For Mr Fosdyke and Mr Prescott were, after all, not angels but Englishmen, and after sending Ewen Cameron on his way across the Lochy they had resumed their long journey southwards. Having left the Highlands they had gone by Edinburgh, Newcastle and Durham, and along the high drove road over the moors, a perfect picture of blue sky, white dust and purple heather; and now they were arrived back amongst the familiar scenes of the Vale of York, sleeping in the heavy August air. As they started upon the last few miles of their journey, Lassie found some relief from the heat in a ditch by the side of the road, where the little flowers of the brooklime reflected the colour of the sky more faithfully than the muddy water.

Early that evening they arrived in the village of Heslington, two miles to the southeast of the city. And, on the far side of the village, standing a little back from the road and half-hidden by a clump of hawthorns, stood the low brick farmhouse which was Mr Fosdyke's home.

The passage of two men on horseback, a dog and a small herd of black cattle along the little village street could hardly have gone unremarked, and by the time they reached the farmhouse quite a crowd had gathered to welcome them. Mr Fosdyke's three children, sitting upon the low garden wall, leapt down and ran towards him. Behind them was their aunt Mary (who had had charge of both children and house ever since, five years before, her brother had become a widower) with the household servants, some of the farm labourers and several of their friends from the village. Shouts and laughter went up from them all; for Robert Fosdyke was both an important and a well-liked person in that little world, from which he had never been so long away before.

Mr Fosdyke, his youngest boy in his arms, spent the next few minutes in a happy confusion of greetings which was constantly interrupted by business about the cattle, the horses, Mr Prescott, Lassie and everyone and everything else for which arrangements had to be made. At last, however, Mary—always a capable woman—steered him and the children inside, and he found himself seated at his own table in the big, stone-flagged farmhouse kitchen, a piece of seed-cake set before him (made specially against his arrival, ten-year-old Peggy delightedly informed him) and his family gathered round him. 

They had, of course, a thousand and one questions to ask about his adventures.

'What's Scotland like, Pa?'

'Was it very far? How tired Lassie looks—there, good lass!'

'Did you see any rebels?'

'Now,' said their aunt, half scolding and half laughing, 'you mustn't annoy your father so, when he han't had so much as a bite to eat yet!'

'I shall answer thy questions later, young Tom,' said Mr Fosdyke, addressing the boy solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eye. 'Have some seed-cake, and be patient.'

The cake proved for the children a sufficient distraction from their curiosity, and they ate for some time in happy silence. 'In any case,' resumed their father once his own slice had disappeared, 'journey wan't hardly worth making for t' cattle, who are poor enough beasts after all—though we'll see what we can make of 'em after a month's grazing on good Yorkshire grass, eh? But I have got some fine stories, and I'll tell all about it this evening.'

He looked around at them all, meeting Peggy's grinning eyes over her last spoonful of seed-cake. Ah, he was indeed ' _happy as those that's got thousands of riches_ ', as the song had it, to be back amongst them. But still he did not regret his journey.

He kept his promise after supper that evening, entertaining the children with stories about Scotland and the sights he had seen there: the grand prospect of Edinburgh castle standing upon its rock above the town, the wild and forbidding hills that towered on either side of the Great Glen above Fort Augustus, the various strange people he had met. They listened, enchanted, and questioned him closely on every detail of his stories.

'What were t' rebels like? Did you meet any of 'em?' asked Bob, the eldest, eagerly. This subject was, perhaps inevitably, a fascinating one. Like many of the inhabitants of that part of northern England, the Fosdyke household had followed the progress of the Jacobites last autumn with some anxiety. Mary was too sensible to believe the more outlandish stories told about the Highlanders in the news sheets, and the children followed their elders' lead; but they were, after all, an invading army, and the news of the retreat from Derby had been a great relief to them all.

'Now, that I did,' said Robert now, in a careful tone unlike his usual hearty way of speaking. 'I did meet one—but a prisoner, going to be tried at Carlisle.'

'A prisoner! He must've been a frightening sight,' said Peggy.

Her father laughed. 'Happen he'd have frightened thee, love. No, he were a fine lad, so I thought—quite a gentleman—only a little fearsome, mebbe.'

'What did he look like?' asked Tom.

'Well,' he said, 'he were tall, and red-haired. Reet oddly dressed—as they all are, wi' them petticoats. Lassie took a liking to him, so he can't have been all bad,' he added, with a smile at the dog who now lay upon the hearthrug, her head resting in Peggy's lap. 'Aye, 'twere a shame...' Here he was silent for a few moments. The children watched him curiously; but presently he broke out again into a broad smile, and said, 'But come now. There must have been plenty to do here, while I've been gone. You have stories to tell me too, I'll lay—let's hear 'em!'

Throughout this happy scene Mary had been watching her brother, with her quiet smile. Few things ever escaped her notice, and his hesitation certainly had not. Later, when the children had been sent to bed and she was clearing away the things and making the house ready for the next morning, she said to him, 'That Highland rebel tha told us about. Tha'st more of that story to tell?'

'Aye,' said Robert, who was still sitting in his great armchair by the fireside. He smiled a little wryly. 'There is more to tell.' And, in simple words, he told it.

It was something of a relief to relate the whole story to her, for he and Mr Prescott, despite sharing a few private jokes about it, had not told this part of their adventures to anyone else since it had happened. Robert Fosdyke was not, as a rule, a particularly subtle or sensitive man; but the encounter with the escaped Jacobite prisoner had remained in his mind all through his journey, following him like a ghost, or like a story that was not quite ended. And ended it could not be, for Robert would never know what had become of the man on the other side of Lochy. But he had thought of him not a few times upon the road southwards.

'I couldn't tell t' childer that,' he finished with a smile. 'I don't want it getting about as how I've a habit of helping rebels.'

Mary had listened to this tale in growing astonishment, standing before the table with a cooking pot, quite forgotten, still clutched in one hand. 'My brother Robert,' she said now, 'good, law-abiding man as he has always been, helping a prisoner escape from t' Government soldiers—I don't know what to think!' She put down the pot and went over to him, and said in a softer tone, 'Why didst tha do it?'

He considered the question. 'Well, 'twere for Lassie's sake at first—I told thee she took a liking to him, and he were kind to her too. And I wanted to get back at t' Government for them cattle. But there were other reasons.' He lowered his voice. 'Polly, tha'st heard from York how t' prisoners there are kept. I don't like such stories one bit, I'll tell thee.'

'That I have,' said Mary, nodding slowly.

'They were our enemies, and we were scared enough of 'em once—but that poor lad, hurt and half clemmed as he were, what could he have done to us now?' He paused—he was remembering Lassie, and how the man had not done to them even what he could have, had he been at all inclined towards revenge—and then went on, 'And the way he got away from them soldiers—I couldn't help admiring him for that, enemy or no.' He shook his head. 'What I mean is—there's such a thing as mercy. T' value of cattle in't all they've forgotten, them Government men.'

Whether or not he had explained all the reasons, it was certain that he was glad to be well away from Fort Augustus, and would be as glad to stop at home and away from York for a while, too.

'Well,' said Mary at last, 'I see. There's one less poor soul in t' gaol at York tonight, thanks to thee...' She went on more decidedly, 'No, I know what to think, then—I'm glad of it. Th'art a good man, Bob.'

Her brother grinned at that, and said a little sharply, 'I don't doubt what I did—nor regret it. I'm not one for such worrying as that, Polly, don't think it!' But then he became solemn again, and went on, 'But I still think of him, up there on them hills. I wonder where he is now...' He shook his head, and said in a brighter tone, and with a smile, 'Nay, I shan't think on it. God shall judge me, if 'twere right or wrong.'


End file.
